


Giveaway Fic #3 - Established Relationship/Victorian Smut

by ConsultingPurplePants



Series: 1000 Tumblr Followers Giveaway Fics [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hidden Relationship, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Smut, Victorian, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 14:05:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7174853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingPurplePants/pseuds/ConsultingPurplePants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What is it, Holmes!? Out with it, man!” Lestrade cries.</p>
<p>Watson smiles inwardly, preparing to be dazzled by Holmes’s unique brilliance. He’s already entranced by Holmes’s enthusiasm; when he’s just solved a case, Holmes is nothing short of breathtaking, full of a nervous sort of energy that makes his cheeks glow and his eyes shine like diamonds. Watson feels his heart swell in his chest at Holmes’s wide smile, his face alight with victory.</p>
<p>“Her lips, Lestrade, <em>her lips</em>!” Holmes nearly shouts. Surely enough, when all three men lean in, the corner of her lips is quite badly smudged in what could resemble the pattern of another set of lips. Watson glances up, puzzled. </p>
<p>“She was kissed, then? Before or after she was murdered?” he inquires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Giveaway Fic #3 - Established Relationship/Victorian Smut

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again :) Wow, not sure how long I'll be able to keep doing one a day but so far so good!!!
> 
> Okay, so this one is for **[@cleyork](http://cleyork.tumblr.com)** , who requested:  
>  _alrighty, after hours and hours of rethinking and rethinking again, i've decided on something?, i guess? i've actually never written prompts but,, ok listen. smutty victorian established and hidden relationship johnlock. being v proffesional and all during a case, going home in a cab, and when gotten home, getting all smutty ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) you don't have to be v explicit if you don't want to. i hope that's understandable, thanks :-)_
> 
> Hope you like this, and thanks a million for the follow <3  
> p.s. I was v explicit

“Watson! Are you listening to me at all?” Holmes cries, turning towards him, and Watson forces himself to drag his eyes away from the way Holmes’s trousers cling to his arse as he bends over the body before him.

“Of course, Holmes, of course,” he replies hastily, but Holmes, of course, sees right through him. He raises a single eyebrow suggestively before bending back to his task, and Watson is glad he’d worn his coat today. 

To distract himself from his teasing lover, he looks around the crime scene, desperate for any distraction at all. His gaze falls upon Detective Inspector Lestrade, and Watson hurries towards him, grateful for any excuse not to be near Holmes right this moment. The detective turns in his direction when he hears him approach, and favours him with a wide smile. 

“Good morning, Watson! Not taking notes for The Strand today?”

Watson forces a smile. “Holmes has informed me that I’m distracting him, so I’ve come over here; have you any new information on the case that we could use?”

Lestrade looks at him curiously for a moment, but then proceeds to launch into a tirade about the state in which the body was found, and how hard it was to arrange for Holmes to have a look at it. It’s enough that Anderson won’t work with him most days, but now Holmes’s antics have gotten so bad that most of Lestrade’s secretaries won’t even type up case notes that have to do with him. Watson nods along, making a mental note to tell Holmes of the need to spare Lestrade’s team when they return home to their rooms in Baker Street.

Just as Lestrade takes a deep breath, fuelling up for his next bout of complaints, Holmes leaps up and shouts. “Watson! Watson, oh, he’s made a mistake, a _fatal_ one!”

Watson rushes over, followed closely by Lestrade. Holmes is pointing excitedly at the unfortunate young woman’s lips, which are coloured a scandalous shade of red. 

“What is it, Holmes!? Out with it, man!” Lestrade cries. 

Watson smiles inwardly, preparing to be dazzled by Holmes’s unique brilliance. He’s already entranced by Holmes’s enthusiasm; when he’s just solved a case, Holmes is nothing short of breathtaking, full of a nervous sort of energy that makes his cheeks glow and his eyes shine like diamonds. Watson feels his heart swell in his chest at Holmes’s wide smile, his face alight with victory. 

“Her lips, Lestrade, _her lips_!” Holmes nearly shouts. Surely enough, when all three men lean in, the corner of her lips is quite badly smudged in what could resemble the pattern of another set of lips. Watson glances up, puzzled. 

“She was kissed, then? Before or after she was murdered?” he inquires.

Holmes grins triumphantly. “She wasn’t murdered at all, my dear Watson! She is the _murderer_!”

Lestrade scoffs, causing Watson and Holmes to turn towards him in surprise. “She’s clearly dead, Holmes. Are you sure you haven’t made an error somewhere in your _deductions_?” 

Holmes points once again to her lips. “Balance of probability says that she was kissed before she died; few would feel comfortable enough kissing the body of a woman they had just killed. So the question is, why did she not reapply her lip rouge? We have already determined, from the strong stench of almonds emanating from her mouth, that she was killed with cyanide. But again, why is the stench so strong, when this woman’s mouth is closed?”

Holmes stops, waiting. Watson, knowing full well what is going on, smiles softly at him, feeling a warmth inside him at the thought that Holmes thinks him intelligent enough to have already determined the answer. 

“I’m sorry, Holmes, but we still haven’t a clue what happened to her,” he prompts, feeling a slight pang at the way Holmes’s face falls. He quickly collects himself, however.

“The smell is so strong because the cyanide isn’t _in_ her mouth, it’s _on_ it! She deliberately smeared it on her lips along with her rouge so that the man she kissed would ingest it and perish! Based simply on the fact that _someone_ has kissed her lips, I would say she has succeeded, and that you had best start looking for another body, Lestrade!” Holmes cries. 

It’s a simple but brilliant explanation, as always, and Watson fights the urge to embrace Holmes right then and there. He catches Holmes’s eye, and for a moment, they simply smile at each other, tearing their gazes away only when their stolen glance begins to reach an inappropriate point. Watson looks down, not for the first time wondering what their relationship could have been like had they been born in a different time. 

Lestrade, the poor man, has not noticed a single second of this exchange; it’s little wonder why he constantly needs to call in Holmes. Eventually, he speaks up. “All right, then, Holmes, if this is true, then why is _she_ dead?”

Holmes smiles dangerously. “She made a mistake, too, Lestrade. Like many people in a nerve-wracking situation like hers, she licked her lips, and thus has perished along with her victim.”

Lestrade rushes off to write all of this down, but Watson doesn’t follow. Holmes’s smile is like the very sun in its brightness, and Watson could not look away if he wanted to. Holmes turns towards him, but rather than smile back, he suddenly looks worried. He reaches out and takes hold of Watson’s elbow, pulling him from the scene and hailing the nearest hansom. 

They both quickly clamber in, sitting on opposite sides like the proper men that they are, and shut the doors. As soon as the clattering of the hansom over the bricked road becomes loud enough, Holmes leans towards him and speaks in a hushed voice. 

“John, as much as I love you, and of course, you know that that amount in itself is immeasurable, we cannot, _cannot_ be seen!”

John reaches for his hand, but Holmes glances out the window and nearly immediately pulls it back. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, truly, I am. But I can’t help but love you even more when I see you like that, all of your brilliance on display. You look beautiful when you’ve just solved something, and I can’t seem to look away.”

Sherlock blushes right to the tips of his ears and looks down, a small smile playing on his lips. John wants to kiss it away. 

“I— Thank you, John. Thank you,” he whispers to the dirty floor of the hansom. John places his hands in his lap, fists clenched, and hopes the hansom gets to Baker Street soon; this week is a lucky one, as their housekeeper has gone out of the city to visit her sister. 

Soon enough, just as the tension in the cab is rising to unbearable levels, the hansom clatters to a stop and they clamber out, thrusting the fare at the driver while trying to appear as calm as possible on the doorstep. Sherlock barely fumbles the keys and they manage to enter the house with as much dignity as they can muster. The instant the door closes with a bang behind them, however, all bets are off.

John turns towards Sherlock and slams him into the door, pressing up against him as he crashes their lips together. Sherlock sinks against him with a moan. His hands come up to pull John even closer, and John groans when he feels the hardness in Sherlock’s trousers rub up against his own. 

He pulls away and starts carefully licking down Sherlock’s neck, making sure not to leave any marks. 

“You’re always… so… beautiful…” John whispers between kisses. Sherlock’s hands clench convulsively in John’s coat, and John realizes they both still have coats and jackets on. 

He quickly sheds his own, then removes Sherlock’s, leaving them both in the entrance in their shirtsleeves and waistcoats. He’s about to reach for Sherlock’s waistcoat when Sherlock murmurs, “Would we not be more comfortable in our rooms?”

John takes off his own waistcoat, drops it on the ground, then undoes the buttons on Sherlock’s, letting it hang open. He feels a wicked grin spread across his face. “We probably would be, yes. But how often are we the only inhabitants of this building?” 

Sherlock gapes at him, his cheeks flushed with arousal, his hair already slipping free of the oil he uses to keep it in place, then removes his own waistcoat the rest of the way, taking his shirt off along with it. John leans back into him, kissing up his chest and back to his lips. He lets his tongue lick along the seam of Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock opens his mouth on a gasp, his hips thrusting against the empty air when John’s tongue strokes across his. John takes Sherlock’s tongue gently between his teeth and suckles at it, drawing a gorgeous whimper from deep in Sherlock’s chest. He lets his hands drift up Sherlock’s bare torso, feeling the warmth of his skin, until his fingers are high enough to gently pinch at Sherlock’s nipples.

Sherlock _moans_ , his entire body going limp under John’s hands as John ruthlessly pulls and pinches at the small pink ovals on his chest. John swallows the beautiful sounds, feeling himself grow harder with every one, as Sherlock’s hands clench into fists on John’s back and pull him closer. John continues his ministrations, loving Sherlock’s writhing and whimpering, until Sherlock’s head falls back against the door and he cries out, “John! Stop, I’m too close, stop!”

John lays one perfectly chaste kiss against his lover’s lips before dropping to his knees, Sherlock’s hands almost automatically grabbing for his shoulders. John reaches for Sherlock’s flies, undoing them and pulling down both trousers and drawers and freeing his erection. 

Sherlock groans, his head making an audible thump against the door. John reaches for him and grips the base of his prick, and the sound Sherlock makes can barely be qualified as human. He laps gently at the tip, holding it steady, feeling Sherlock’s nearly constant whimpers somewhere low in his own belly. 

The whimpers soon turn to words— _John_ , please, _please—_ but John continues his teasing, still fascinated by the idea that they’re making as much noise as they please in the very entrance of their building, and no one is there to stop them. 

When John finally looks up, there are tears in Sherlock’s eyes, his fists clenched nearly painfully in John’s hair, and the sight nearly undoes him. He reaches down with his free hand to undo his own flies, his erection suddenly desperate to be freed, and starts to stroke himself off just as he finally takes Sherlock into his mouth. Sherlock sags against the door, keening, and John sucks and licks like his life depends on it. 

It’s mere moments before Sherlock’s eyes roll back in his head and he shouts his release, his hands trembling in John’s hair as his body is wracked with spasms and John’s mouth is flooded. The sight of Sherlock’s shaking body is enough to send John over the edge, as well, and he groans as he comes over his own hand. Sherlock drops to his own knees and slumps against John, sated, and they both end up on their backs on the Persian carpet lining the entrance floor. 

Sherlock is content to merely drape over John, and John holds him close, like the precious, brilliant man that he is. He grins down at him. 

“That… was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” he pants out. Sherlock smiles up at him, and John feels like the entire room has suddenly become brighter.

“And you invaded Afghanistan,” he quips back. 

John looks down at him, still panting, and it’s mere moments before they explode into laughter, absolutely powerless to stop themselves. 

And as they laugh, half-clothed on the ground, wrapped up in each other, John can’t help but think that despite the need to hide their love, theirs is quite a life for two gentlemen to lead.


End file.
